The Adventure of the Fortune Cookies
by CowMow
Summary: Allow me to introduce Sherlock Watson and John Holmes. When our dear friends wake up, something is terribly wrong. Sherlock is hungry and John desperately needs a smoke. 'Sherlock' meets 'Freaky Friday', and freaky it certainly is.
1. Unsettling

At two o'clock in the afternoon, Mycroft descended from his black, shining limo, and looked up towards 221B's windows. He needed his brother's help, and he didn't like the idea. But eh, he wasn't made for _legwork_. So he opened the door of 221B with a duplicate key, and climbed the stairs silently. He opened the door and saw his younger brother sitting in John's arm chair, typing on John's laptop. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. _That was curious_. He soon saw the blogger, lying on the sofa in his pajamas, with closed eyes.

Mycroft coughed quietly, trying to gain attention from his brother. Mycroft smiled curtly at John, and sat down on the other arm-chair, opposite his brother.

"Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock politely greeted, looking up, before turning back to his computer.

Mycroft cleared his throat and looked at his brother. "Sherlock, I, erm, need your help."

John moaned softly from the sofa. "Not really interested. Goodbye."

The elder Holmes' eyes widened in disbelief and flew from Sherlock towards John, who opened his eyes. "Yes, you heard me. Not. Interested," the blogger repeated.

With an insecure smile, Mycroft turned back towards his brother, who was still typing. "What's going on here?"

Sherlock looked up, his face resolute. "No, I'm not going to meddle in your childish feud, sort it out yourself." He sighed, closed his laptop. Standing up, he announced: "Sherlock, I'm off. Shall I bring some milk?"

"Hmm," was all the reply the short blogger gave, closing his eyes slowly.

Sherlock walked towards the peg, lifted John's coat from it, put it on, suddenly changed his mind, probably realising it was not his, and carefully lifted the dark, swirling coat from its resting place, changing it for John's.

"Careful with that coat, John. I've only got one," John said to Sherlock, bending his neck in a strange angle to look at the detective, while muttering "hmm.. that coat does look really good on me. You," he quickly corrected himself, while looking at Mycroft. When Sherlock had left the flat, Mycroft focused fully on the lazy blogger.

"What's going on, John?" the tall man asked.

"It's Sherlock, brother dear," the short blonde said.

"Have you two been taking drugs?" Mycroft's voice turned a little worried, as he scanned the whole flat quickly, as if the needles and mirrors were lying all around.

"No. Fortune cookies."

"Fortune cookies?" The man with the minor position in the British Government didn't know what to say.

Irritated, John opened his eyes, fixing them on the elder Holmes. "Yes, Mycroft. Fortune cookies."

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><p>AN: I got this idea while on the train today. Please Review :D


	2. Convincing

**Author's Note: I'm sorry if it's a bit short for now, I promise to make a longer one soon! Thanks for the lovely reviews so far, they were astonishingly positive, hopefully I can live up to the expectations... Obviously, I don't own anything.**

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><p>"Fortune cookies?" the tall man with umbrella asked again, a veil of both disbelief and worries drawn over his face.<p>

"Yes, Mycroft. John and I went for dinner last night at the Chinese. We were offered fortune cookies by the owner of the restaurant, we went home, went to bed early, woke up early," the blonde explained, wearily.

"Took some drugs?" The elder brother just couldn't get it, and still blamed the drugs. _Well, it was the only possible explanation._

"No." John exhaled deeply. "We woke up, and it turned out we swopped bodies."

Mycroft's mouth twitched in annoyed disbelief. "Prove it."

John inhaled deeply. "You woke up after only two hours sleep on the sofa, had breakfast very quickly, brushed your teeth in the limo, finished three," here the blogger paused for a bit, "no, four brownies at work, saw the file about the murdered MP on your desk and came, after a rather long, I suspect tedious, meeting to me to ask me for my help, and sorry, I can't do it. I promised John we wouldn't leave the flat until we swopped back into our own bodies."

The tall man started to chuckle, which caused the blogger to narrow his eyes.

"There, your first mistake. You have left today before I came. Lestrade needed help, indeed with the murdered MP. You two have been to the crime scene."

The blonde's blue eyes quickly scanned Mycroft's features. "You still don't believe me," he simply stated, ignoring the question.

"No." The elder Holmes shaked his head.

"Well, John always has been more reliable than me."

"That's true. But knowing my little brother, John could be easily persuaded. And it's highly unlikely that two people swop places. Doesn't happen in real life."

"Seems a bit dull. And besides: when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true. Deduce me."

John stood up, spread his arms a little and looked at Mycroft.

"But…" Suddenly the man understood. He gaped at John, or better said: his younger brother. "You have left the flat, helping Lestrade."

"Yes.." the blonde slowly said, suddenly sounding very much like Sherlock now. "We have." A sigh escaped him. "And traumatising it was…"


	3. Coping

Mycroft shifted in his chair, so that he could look better at his brother. "Tell me what happened, from the start."

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><p>Earlier that day:<p>

Yawning, Sherlock opened his eyes and stared ceiling in his darkened bedroom. Wow, he felt hungry. When was the last time he had dinner? Must have been last night. No, not last night. He hadn't eaten yesternight, John did, they had gone to the Chinese yesterday. No, it must have been two days ago. _How can he possibly be hungry then?_

He swung his legs over the edge of his bed, and that was when he felt something was wrong. Very wrong.

When his feet hit the floor, and he stood up, he noticed the floor was closer. Or he was lower now. Both things not really comforting. And he was hungry. Really hungry.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, his eyes darting around the room, his voice sounding strange in his own ears. _John's room, _his brain noticed. He felt nauseous, already beginning to understand what was going on. When John came up the stairs, his eyes widened. Sherlock coughed. "Not good."

"Bit not good, no," John agreed, staring at his friend. "Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Tell me how this happened?"

Sherlock shrugged. John grew visibly irritated. He pointed towards his hair. "Look, Sherlock. Dark curls," and pointing towards his legs he said, "I'm much longer, much thinier. I'm dying for cigarets somehow, and you bloody look like me!"

Sherlock sighed. "Somehow we swopped bodies."

John grimaced. "That's a great deduction, Sherlock. HOW?"

"Must have been the fortune cookies from last night. Now shut up, I need food!" _Wow, that was something he never thought he would say..._ With firm leaps he jumped down the stairs past John, layed the table, toasted bread and at last, he could eat. John stood on the threshold, his arms folded across his chest. Sherlock looked up. "You've had dinner last night! How can you- I be hungry like this?"

John angrily said: "You're supposed to have quit smoking, yet I really want a cigaret. How's that possible?"

"No, seriously! How can I be hungry?"

"You weren't eating anything. I always eat less when we go out together, because otherwise I look like a hungry dragon," John admitted, exhaling deeply.

Sherlock frowned, while taking a bit of his toast. "That's stupid. Why would you do that?"

"Compared to you, I always devour huge amounts of food and I just want to avoid all the looks. But why do you still smoke? I hid all the packets. Where did I hid them…" his eyes searched the living room.

Sherlock pouted and drank his coffee after he had finished breakfast.

"Sherlock, this is ridiculous. This just doesn't happen, not in real life." John looked at Sherlock.

"Sounds dull."

John's eyes, well, Sherlock's eyes, turned a shade darker. Sherlock leaned backwards and scanned John from head to toe. "I do look rather good, don't I? I do have remarkable cheekbones, and aren't my black curls amazing?" he asked John, who tried to remain calm.

"Yes, Sherlock: you are the sex-god."

When John obviously was angry, Sherlock sighed and walked to his bedroom, fishing his favourite blue dressinggown from his drawer. When he put it on, he noticed it didn't fit. Angrily he threw it on the bed.

"I look ridiculous. Absurd," Sherlock said angrily.

"Thanks Sherlock!" John shouted back from the kitchen. _Sarcasm_.

A surprised look appeared on Sherlock's face. "What are you doing in the kitchen?" he asked, while walking back. John was standing on a chair, searching behind the mugs in the cupboard.

"Ah!" he exclaimed excultantly, holding up a small packet of cigarets.

"No, John!" Sherlock warned his friend.

"Sod this, Sherlock. I can't think properly. Shut up." And without a second thought, he lighted the cigaret and inhaled the smoke delightedly.

"Fine," Sherlock muttered angrily, turning away from his smoking friend. "There they go, all my days of effortfull cold turkey. Woosh, down the drain."

He threw himself on the sofa, closing his eyes, and he tried to think. His thinking process, however, was disturbed by the doorbell. Seconds later, Lestrade stood in the middle of 221B's living room


	4. Adjusting

Lestrade was glad he had finally arrived at Baker Street, and even more so to find Sherlock at home. He really needed his help, as the murdered kid in the attic of an abandoned house was quite haunting him. Well, figuratively then. He took the stairs with two steps at the time, and grabbed the door handle as soon as he had reached the landing. He pushed it open, and his eyes darted around the small living room, seeing John lying on the couch and Sherlock smoking in the kitchen with a delighted smile on his face.

"Sherlock, why are you smoking? I thought you were cold turkey!" Lestrade exclaimed, quite surprised.

"Well, Lestrade, ask him, not me!"

Lestrade blinked, and turned his head to look at the blogger who lay on the sofa.

"John, I did ask Sherlock, not you," the DI said confusedly.

"No, you did-" said the blogger, lifting his head. "Oh, yes, of course. You did," the blogger sighed frustatedly and sank back on the sofa, eyes closed.

Lestrade lifted his eyebrow and focussed on Sherlock again. Sherlock smiled and extinguised the cigaret. "Hello Greg, you're here for a reason?" the detective kindly asked the DI.

Greg's eyes darted over Sherlock's face, his jaw about to drop. "A-are you two okay?" he stammered.

"Oh, yes, we are, aren't we, Sher-John," the tall man asked, wrapping his too short dressing gown around him a little tighter.

"Are you wearing John's dressing gown, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked. "Oh, never mind, I don't even _want_ to know!" He heard John sighing deeply, and turned towards the lazy blogger on the couch. "No, John, I really don't."

"Okay, Greg, we get it," Sherlock's voice vibrated in answer to Lestrade behind the DI's back, causing the poor man to turn again and face the man he needed help from.

"Sherlock, a dead kid, murdered, is found in the attic of an abandoned house. He was strangled and left after being knocked out. Will you help?" Lestrade looked at the detective, who slowly walked towards the sink to fill the kettle for tea.

"Well, don't ask…" Sherlock started, but then his eyes flickered towards John, and then the tall man continued: "don't ask John, ask… me. Yes, ask me."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "I _was_ asking you, Sherlock. Will you help?"

Again Sherlock's eyes glance at John quickly, and then he nodded curtly.

Lestrade exhaled when Sherlock said a bit doubtfully: "but not in a police car. We will be right behind. Is that okay, Sh-John?"

The blogger nodded, and Lestrade left the flat. _Wow, what had gotten in those two today?_

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><p>In the flat, the two men sat down, facing each other in deep silence. "We have to be careful not to attract too much attention, John," the short man on the sofa said eventually.<p>

The other nodded his head in agreement, the dark curls swinging around his head. Suddenly he grabs the curls with his hand, and looks at his friend. "Really, I want curls too. Are they like this naturally?"

Sherlock nodded proudly. "They are nice, aren't they? Not that short hair is bad, I suppose. It's easy."

The kettle started to sing, and John got up to make tea. When he put down the steaming cup in front of his friend, he sipped from his own and fixed his eyes on the man on the couch.

"Sherlock? We need to talk this over. When we go out there, and you start deducing all kinds of things, there certainly will be questions."

Sherlock nodded. "We can pretend I am trying to deduce stuff, and you will be watching and nodding all the time, because all I say will be correct. In that way, we should be able to behave normally. John, get dressed, we are leaving in fifteen minutes."

John was already on his way to the bathroom to shave, when Sherlock called after him: "please be careful with shaving, scars really don't look good on me."

"Shut up, Sherlock!"

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><p>Ten minutes later, John exited Sherlock's bedroom, impeccably dressed in black trousers, the purple shirt and a tight buttoned black jacket.<p>

Sherlock was already dressed, simply in jeans and a blue, woolen jumper. "John?"

"Hmm?" was all he got as a reply, because John was focused on getting the buttons closed.

"This jumper of you... It's itchy."

"Of course," John answered absently, still arguing with the buttons of the dress shirt.

"Let me help you," Sherlock said, stepping closer to his friend, reaching his arms a little higher to fumble at John's buttons. John bit his lip, his eyes locked in his own, trying very hard to ignore the fiddling fingers near his stomach.

When Sherlock had closed the buttons, he took a step backwards and looked at his friend, locked in his own body.

"I really look good in that purple shirt. Why did you choose to wear that one today?" His eyes locked back in John's.

A shy, _shy?_, smile broke through on John's face. "I've always thought that shirt looked good on you. I think I'll enjoy wearing this. Well, I'd better, don't I?"

Sherlock nodded and smiled a little. "We have to go. Lestrade will be waiting. We have a killer to catch!"


	5. Arguing

Exactly twenty minutes after Lestrade had left, Sherlock and John stood outside 221B trying to hail a cab. John stood a little back, while Sherlock, who always hailed the cabs, didn't really have much success.

With an irritated look on his face he turned to face his friend, who stood with his arms folded across his chest.

"John, they just don't seem to notice me. How is that possible?"

John shrugged. "They never seemed to notice _me_, that why I always let you hail them. Shall I..?" The question hung between them, and with a vague gesture, Sherlock allowed his friend to attract the cabbies' attentions. _Just this once_.

John stepped forward and lifted his arm, and immediately a cab stopped, right in front of him. John's smile lighted up the grey eyes and sharp cheekbones, and stepped inside the cab, followed by Sherlock.

* * *

><p>"Really, Sherlock! We should swop places more often. I like hailing cabs."<p>

"No, you don't." Sherlock looked outside the window, trying very hard not to look at his friend.

"Sherlock, you're sulking."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you _are_. Admit it. Why?" John insisted.

"Well, I'm short, I'm blonde, my shoulder feels stiff, I'm missing my coat and my suits and my shoes and my curls, and the jumpers itch. You rekindled my smoking again… Isn't that _obvious_? Of course I'm sulking, let me, will you?"

John sniggered, but composed himself as soon as Sherlock fixed his eyes on his now very tall and very handsome friend. A sulking Sherlock usually was very funny sometimes, but when Sherlock's gaze lingered on John some seconds more, John's eyes widened a little and a hurt look appeared on his face. "Why don't you just say I'm ugly, Sherlock? Is it that bad being me?"

"No, John! No, I didn't mean that. It's just... I'm me, and now I'm not me. And it's confusing, and we are going to a crime scene and now I have to pretend I'm you," Sherlock fluently answered, hoping he had convinced his friend. And by the look of it, he hadn't.

"Why don't you just say it, Sherlock?" John's voice sounded cold and distant. "Just say I'm repulsive, let's get over with. No, I don't have cheekbones, raven hair, curls, long legs till in heaven... Cabbie, pull over here, please." As soon as the cab stopped, John jumped out, his coat swirling behind him. He ducked back down low enough to look at his friend through the door opening. "Sherlock, hopefully you enjoy your crime scene, I'm off home."

He slammed the door shut and watched how the car drove off.

Sherlock twisted his neck to look back at his friend, but John had walked away already, his back turned towards the accelerating cab. Sherlock sighed and fished out his mobile phone.

_I didn't mean it that way. SH_

He pressed send, and waited for a reply that didn't come.

"We've arrived, sir," the cabbie announced, turning back to see why his passenger didn't respond.

"Erm yes, of course. Thank you. Here, keep the change." Sherlock quickly left the taxi. He stood outside the house were the boy was found, his eyes scanning the area for clues. When he had gained enough information, he walked towards the barrier tape.

"Hello Donovan," he said, trying to sound like John. _Better not rouse any suspicion now._

"Ah, hello John. Didn't bring the freak?" she snapped back at him. _Mmm... Not just unkind to me then._ Sherlock shrugged and ducked to slip under the tape, walking inside the house. He had to find Lestrade and solve this murderer, or should he try to contact John first?

The little nagging voice in the back of his head said he should call John first, but stubborn Sherlock just refused. Crimes were a lot more fun than sulking friends, right?

_Would John really think himself ugly then?_ It seemed hardly possible to Sherlock who thought his friend was the most beautiful person he had ever seen. He suddenly smiled when he remembered a scene from Doctor Who, the show John insisted on watching. The red-haired women, Amy?, met her older self and started to talk about Rory_. _The text came back to Sherlock quite literally.

_"You know, when sometimes you meet someone, so beautiful, and then you actually talk to them, and then five minutes later they are as dull as a brick? Then there's other people, and you meet them and you think "not bad, they are okay" and then you get to know them and their face just sort of becomes them. Like their personality is written all over it. And they just, they turn into something so beautiful. Rory is the most beautiful man I've ever met."_

Of course, Sherlock never really paid attention to series like that, but that quote somehow lingered. It fitted John.

"Well, John. Found yourself a new girlfriend? You're smiling like the yellow smiley on your wall," Lestrade interrupted Sherlock's thoughts. _Ah, he was John now_. So he nodded, smiling. "Where's Sherlock?" the DI asked.

"Erm… He is at home. Bored, he said. This case is too easy for him. 'Obvious', I quote."

"Well, okay. You'd better have a look then. Follow me." Lestrade climbed the stairs, followed by Sherlock.

_John's the most beautiful man I've ever met. _Was he?


	6. Apologising?

**Not beta'd, so forgive me any mistake I've made in this piece. :) Enjoy!**

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><p>John was angry, and he thought he had the right to be so. It's not as if he loved Sherlock, that would be plain ridiculous. Okay, the man's fingers across his chest that morning, buttoning up his shirt, had send some shivers up his spine. But hey, Sherlock could be rather intimidating sometimes. It's just… When your best friend says you are repulsive, it's not a very <em>nice<em> thing to hear. So John just stuck with that thought. Best friend.

So when his phone beeped and he read Sherlock's text, he remained angry. Couldn't the man just say for once in his life he was sorry he hurt his best friend? Just. Once. That was all John was asking, knowing his friend never would. When he would see Sherlock again, both of them normally would carry on like nothing had happened, but John was resolved this time to not let that happen. Sherlock had to apologise, and nothing else would do.

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><p>Sherlock, in the mean time, entered the attic, his eyes darting around the room. Mud. There was an awful lot of mud. On the floor, on the boy's clothes, everywhere. So when he pointed it out to Lestrade, the DI shrugged.<p>

"Well, John, what kid is not covered in mud?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but kneeled down beside the victim, and examined the strangulation wounds with his magnifier.

After a minute, he knew all there was to know, and he got back to his feet.

"Well, John? Have you found anything," the DI asked wearily, not really expecting the blogger to come up with conclusive evidence.

"Well, Lestrade, I think," _Ha, that was weird. I think. I know would have been better, BUT he was John now, so he'd better remain polite. A little_. "Well, I think the kid was murdered by one of his playmates, as you can see by the height and angle of the strangulation, and by the tiny traces of mud here, and here," Sherlock continued with pointed finger.

"Okay.. how did a kid of 10 years old drag his murdered playmate all the way up here?"

"He or she didn't. I think it's a she, because of the force of the lines around his neck. The person to bring the boy here must have been…" he turned around to see better, "the father of the girl, because of the footprints. The girl has blond curling hair, rather long, wore a red jumper and a skirt, shoes with a tiny high heel. The father wore… a dress shirt and boots. Will that help?"

"Good grief, John!" The DI looked at the small doctor with surprise and admiration. "You're as good as Sherlock, and not even as arrogant. Can't you take over his job, you're a far pleasanter man to work with. Anderson!" Lestrade exited the room, leaving Sherlock alone. Sherlock shook his head. Of course, nobody really liked him, he was the arrogant sod. But still, somehow it hurt.

Putting aside the feelings, he exited the room to, greeting the other officers, and hastily leaving the building. He really had to find John.

* * *

><p>John opened the door of Starbuck's and entered. He really needed a strong, dark coffee, and with a sigh of relief he sank down in a chair, as soon as the paper cup was handed to him. When he was about to take a sip, his eye fell on some ink. He rotated the cup and read a girl's name and telephone number on it.<p>

Inhaling deeply, he turned towards the bar, and saw the three girls who stood behind the counter smiling shily at him. He crossed his now very long legs under the table and closed his eyes. _Ah, coffee._

"Do you mind if I come and sit here?" a vaguely known voice asked. It sounded familiar, but somehow John couldn't quite place it.

He opened his eyes, and saw his friend standing beside the table, also a paper cup in hand.

"Sure," John said, waving his hand dismissively.

The blonde man sat down and layed his hands flat at the table, leaning slightly towards John.

"John," he started, but John interrupted him.

"How was the crime scene, Sherlock?"

"Oh, dull. But that;s not what I wanted to talk to you about."

John put down his cup and leaned a little towards Sherlock. "Well, tell me. It seems important."

"It is important. I'm… sorry, John. I didn't mean it that way. I was frustrated and arrogant and annoying, and I'm sorry."

John blinked twice. "You're apologising."

"Yes, good deduction."

John smiled, a sign for Sherlock he accepted the apology. But the blogger wasn't quite finished. "Why are you apologising this suddenly?"

The man across the table smiled too. "Let's say I had some sort of revelation at the crime scene. I was think-" but again, the tall man interrupted him.

"Sherlock, look, over there, isn't that the Chinese from yesternight? The one who gave us the cookies?"

Both men's eyes locked in each other, and in perfect synchrony they stood up and ran outside, startling the Chinese who began to sprint away.

"Ready?" Sherlock asked.

"Ready when you are," John answered, feeling the thrill already.

"Good. Let's catch a Chinese!"


	7. Confiding

**It's a bit of a short one, but I needed this as some sort of run up to the next chapter. Don't kill me, I've loads of ideas for the next chapters :) Enjoy and please, stick with me. It'll all turn out fine. Well, when I say fine...**

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><p>"And?" Mycroft asked, dragging his brother back to the present. "Did you catch the Chinese?"<p>

Sherlock sighed. "No, he ran away and disappeared."

"Well," Mycroft said slowly, "at least John forgave you. That's a good thing, right? But what are you going to do now?"

"The restaurant was closed this morning, I think we will try again and see if that man is at home or no. "

Both men sat down in silence, each deep sunken into their own thoughts. After a while, soft footsteps on the stairs were heard. Sherlock rose from the sofa immediately and opened the door for his friend, and offered to carry the bags. The tall man who was John glanced in Sherlock's eyes and smiled slightly, glad to hand the heavy bags to his friend. Sherlock smiled in response and only after Mycroft coughed did he turn around and headed towards the kitchen.

"Well, John," Mycroft started, which earned him a look from the curly man. "You two swopped, so my brother told me. It must be confusing."

"Yes, it is." John turned around and helped his friend in the kitchen to store away all the groceries. Mycroft couldn't hide a smile and rose too. He peeped around the corner into the kitchen and said: "Sherlock, John, I'm off, there's loads of work to do. Let me know if you need some help. With anything, perhaps I can figure something out."

Without looking up, Sherlock answered: "oh, thanks brother dear, but I don't deem that necessary."

The tall man with the umbrella left the flat.

In the flat, the groceries were stored away, and both men sat down with their well deserved cup of tea. "What are we going to do now?" John asked.

"Don't know," Sherlock answered pensively. "Well, I'm bored, but you probably know that already."

"Don't you have any experiments to do?" John proposed, sipping from his cuppa.

"Hmm… Good idea John. Fetch something from Bart's morgue for me, will ye?" he said as he closed his eyes and curled up on the sofa.

John sighed and stood up. He grabbed Sherlock's coat again and put it on, as well as the scarf. "Well, I'm getting better and better at this. How do I look?" he asked teasingly.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at his friend with big puppy-eyes. "John, don't do that. I told you I'm sorry and I meant it."

"Just joking, Sherlock. No worries, it's all fine," John shouted over his shoulder when he leaped down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson opened her door and looked at John's back. "Are you two alright? You are calling each other by the wrong name? Is this one of your experiments?"

John froze in mid-movement. "Erm, yes, Mrs. Hudson, it is a very interesting experiment, yes. I'll explain to you later," he yelled before the door closed behind him. He decided to walk to Bart's. he pretended to do so because he liked walking, whereas it was because of the swirling coat and the admiring looks from the women he got. Well, he'd better enjoy if for once, who knew when this would be over.

Sherlock in the mean time lay on the sofa, until suddenly he realized his mistake. Molly. John was going to the morgue, and Molly was there. Well, John knew how to behave, he had adapted better than Sherlock. But still, somehow Sherlock was really worried. Would everything be okay?

He shrugged; there was nothing he could do about it now. So he sat up, straightened his jumper and walked towards the kitchen. It was time to prepare John a surprise.

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><p><strong>I told you it was a short one. Molly will be up soon. :) If you have some ideas or suggestions, perhaps some requests, don't hesitate to post them.<strong>


	8. Imitating

**As promised: a longer chapter. :) Enjoy!**

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><p>With a sigh the pathologist walked through the swinging doors at Bart's. She was happy to have ended her job for today at last. It's been a rather dull day; three natural causes, not a single murder or anything interesting today. She flipped her hair out of her face and opened her bag clumsily to search for her car keys. The bag, however, was heavy and big and uncontrollable, so even Molly wasn't surprised when it dropped on the floor, all its content spreading over the floor. She sighed again. Blasted day it had been, she could handle this too. She knelt down and started to gather all her possessions slowly, putting it back in the bag. When her eyes met the black, smart shoes standing in front of her and her gaze trailed up, noticing the tight black trousers, her humiliation was complete. <em>Even a day like this could always get worse<em>. She decided not to say anything, and just carried on with collecting her items. Suddenly her fingers brushed against pale long fingers. Her head jerked up, her shy eyes met the beautiful grey ones from the man opposite her. Her jaw dropped and eyes widened as Sherlock, _of course,_ _who else,_ picked up the dropped files and little make-up mirror.

"Here, luckily it's not broken," Sherlock commented, handing her the mirror.

"Th-thank you," she stammered insecurely, taking the little thing from his slender fingers. _Shite, why did she always stammer like that!_

To her great astonishment, Sherlock smiled at her and helped her back on her feet.

"You're welcome, Molly," the deep baritone answered.

Molly straightened her back and brushed her blonde, loosened hair out of her flushed face, trying to find something to say, wondering why Sherlock didn't say anything unkind the way he always did.

When she didn't say anything, Sherlock again smiled and walked away, heading for the morgue. Molly stood like frozen, unable to move, thousands of possible questions running through her mind. Suddenly she realised she should grab her chance now the opportunity lay bare before her, within grasp. She spun around on her feet, grabbing her heavy bag in the process, and quickly ran after the consulting detective. Upon hearing her footsteps, Sherlock again turned around, a questioning look on his handsome face.

"Well, I was ju-just wondering where John was." Molly desperately asked the first thing that came in mind.

Sherlock looked puzzled, and opened and shut his mouth, making himself look like a goldfish. Molly smiled suddenly, and felt not as nervous anymore. _That's strange… she always felt nervous around Sherlock._

"Erm, John is at, erm… Baker Street," Sherlock stuttered.

_Stuttered! He never did that! _"Oh." _Oh! What kind of answer was that?_ "Did you come here for something special?" Molly bravely asked, monitoring his features sharply.

"Yes, I would love to have some fingers or something else. Anything will do actually. He wasn't very precise."

"He?" Molly lifted her eyebrow questioningly.

"The experiment," Sherlock hastened himself to rectify.

"Ah, of course. Well, I think I have something that will do, but it won't be fingers, sorry," Molly blushed again and walked ahead of Sherlock, towards the morgue. She was jumping inside. If she didn't misread the signals, she might even have a chance today! This was good, as today she had sworn herself to get over Sherlock, and move on. It must have been a gift from heaven. She giggled; it was all very fairytale-y.

"Oh, well, it doesn't matter. As I said: anything will do." Sherlock walked behind her, silently cursing himself. He had to behave like Sherlock, but that was harder than he had thought. He really liked Molly, and even admired her now and then. She always accepted the cruel remarks with great dignity and endurance.

Molly flipped on the cold fluorescent lamps in the morgue and opened a couple of drawers. When she turned back to face Sherlock, he noticed the smile in her eyes. He swallowed hard, something Molly didn't fail to notice. Of course, John knew Molly was ill-treated all the time, but it was kind of heart-breaking to see how she responded to some kind words and gestures from the man she thought to be Sherlock. He really had to point this out to Sherlock; he really couldn't be allowed to continue like this.

"Sherlock?" Molly's soft question interrupted his thoughts, while she held out a plastic bag filled with some red substance.

"What's this?" Sherlock asked.

Molly, again, lifted her eyebrow. "Don't you know? It's a gall bladder and a liver."

"Ah, of course it is," Sherlock answered a tiny bit too fast, and way too kindly. John had noticed it too. _He really had to try harder._

"Ah, thank you, Molly. I would appreciate some coffee though, might stay here for a while longer," he said, harshly all of a sudden.

Molly's face fell a bit, her shoulders lowered, but she bravely continued to face the detective. "Of course, I'll get it in a minute."

He sat down behind a random microscope, while Molly left the morgue. He didn't feel too happy about all this but he knew he had to keep up the charade.

When Molly returned, she found Sherlock fiddling with the microscope, looking at some obscure green foam in a petri dish.

"How's the experiment going on?" Molly asked, putting down the cup carefully. "It's black with two sugars, by the way," she added.

"Fine," Sherlock mumbled, ignoring the steaming coffee.

Molly remained silent afterwards and sat down beside the raven-haired man, admiring his silhouette and soft black curls.

"Molly, you're staring," came the harsh deduction. _There, that sounded more like Sherlock_.

"Oh, sorry," Molly quickly apologised, fixing her eyes on her shoes immediately.

"No, it's… fine."

* * *

><p>"Do you need anything?" Molly asked.<p>

"No."

"What exactly are you doing?"

"I need to know how this… develops, but I need a Bunsen burner." _It was called like that, wasn't it?_

"Oh, I'll get it for you."

When she returned with the burner in her hands, he took it without any "thank you", no matter how hard he had to fight the urge to say it anyway. _Sherlock wouldn't, so I wouldn't_.

* * *

><p>When Molly stood up to take off her coat, Sherlock quickly stood up too, <em>force of habit<em>, and helped her to get rid of the coat. But when he held the soft cloth in his hands, he realised Sherlock would never do such a thing. Instead of laying it on one of the tables, he carelessly flung it on the ground and returned to his microscope, trying to look impressive and very busy, but in fact he had no idea what he was doing.

When Sherlock was apparently done with his research, he rose and lifted his black coat from the nearby chair. He looked down at Molly who stared back at him.

"Erm…" he mumbled, looking like he had some difficulty trying to find the words.

"Good luck with the liver and gall-thing," Molly whispered, pointing at the plastic bag.

"Yes, thank you." He picked it up and looked at the pathologist again.

There hung an awkward silence between the two of them, and suddenly John found himself attacked by Molly. To be more precise: her left hand in his hair, her right hand around his waist UNDER his jacket. Her lips were on his, pressing lightly, moving gently, her hands clinging unto his hair. All kinds of thoughts passed through his head, but the one that remained was: _O my god, what did I do wrong!_

As suddenly as Molly started the kiss, so abruptly did she end it. She looked at him expectantly, her eyes wide, lips slightly parted, chest heaving from emotions.

She noticed that Sherlock swallowed again and tried to glue a meaning to that. Sherlock cleared his throat and said: "okay… that was a nice… erm… experiment."

"Experiment?" Molly spit out, disbelief written all over her face.

"Yes. Did you like it?" John inwardly bit his lip, trying to keep back a giggle. This was a ridiculous situation; he couldn't wait to tell Sherlock.

"Yes." John tried really hard to think of something. "It's obvious you are in love with me, so I wanted to know how you would respond to me being all, erm, nice and kind to you." _Hmm... Lying was getting better. He _should_ be worried about that. _

"An experiment?" Molly repeated softly, just for herself.

He nodded. _Oh, this was just plain ridiculous. He had to go away from here_.

"Well, Molly. I'll see you soon. Thanks for the… liver and bladder thing. Laters!" and he quickly exited the morgue, leaving a very confused Molly who was sure she hadn't imagined all those signals. There definitely was something wrong with Sherlock. Maybe he was ill or something.

Then she shrugged, and mumbled softly: "well, it's not as if he was _such_ a good kisser." She turned off the lights and closed the door behind her. It was time to go home.

* * *

><p>"You took your time," Sherlock commented as soon as John came walking through the door. He looked at his friend and saw it immediately. "Oh, John! What did you do to Molly?"<p>

John sank down on the sofa and closed his eyes, covering them with his right hand. "I honestly don't know, Sherlock. I just… helped her with her bag which she had dropped, and asked for some things. Here," he said when he dropped the plastic bag in Sherlock's lap. "Hopefully you enjoy it."

Sherlock sprang to his feet and opened the bag, delight readable in his eyes, like a small kid. "Thanks John! This is great."

"Molly kissed me, Sherlock. She kissed me like a grown-up woman!"

"Of course she did, she _is_ a grown-up woman."

John sighed deeply. "I mean, she really loves you. Just treat her a little kinder, will you?"

Sherlock turned towards his friend, his eyebrows raised. "Why are you saying this?"

"Oh, don't bother. I will remain in this house, in my bedroom, until we have un-swapped. If you need anything, you get it yourself. This situation is completely MENTAL!" John shouted angrily, throwing the coat on the floor and toeing off his shoes.

"John? Expensive coat. Expensive shoes." Sherlock didn't even look up; he was entirely occupied with the liver.

"Oh, I'm sure it is. I'm upstairs in case you need me."

"John?" Sherlock called him back.

"Yes, Sherlock?" Irritation was audible in John's voice, in his grey eyes blazed fire.

"I have a surprise for you."

"And what may that be?"

"Look in my room."

John looked at his friend in wonder and opened the door of Sherlock's bedroom. In the corner of the room stood a small fridge.

"You bought a _fridge_?"

"Yes."

"Oh." John walked towards it and opened it. In the fridge lay some fingernails and dishes with fungal populations.

John closed the door and walked back to the kitchen. "Why did you do this?"

"You hate all this things in the fridge. So I'll just put them there, they won't be in your way."

"Well, thank you, I suppose. But why did you do this now?"

Sherlock remained silent, but his eyes locked in John's. "Was she a good kisser?" he finally asked.

The ardent look on his face caused a giggle to bubble up by the blogger in the detective's body, and soon laughter from both men flooded the apartment as John, hiccupping from laughter, told him everything that had happened between him and Molly in the morgue.

When the laughter had died away, John sank down on the sofa and turned on the telly. It showed an interview with Lestrade, who told the press the murderer of the kid was found. Some reporter asked if it was Sherlock Holmes that had helped solving the case, but Lestrade denied that. "No, it was Doctor John Watson, Sherlock's friend. He turns out to be as good as Sherlock, so he was able to give us some very good leads."

"Great, Sherlock!" John moaned, turning off the telly and looking at Sherlock, but Sherlock sat up straight, apparently listening to some noises downstairs. He got up and walked downstairs without saying anything to John. John narrowed his eyes and tried to listen too, but all he heard was a soft thud and a groan. It was silent for a while, and a worried John walked towards the landing, peering down. His breath stuck in his throat. His friend lay on the floor, a very well-known person was knelt down beside the body, and when she looked up, a smile broke through on her face and she quickly climbed the stairs. John stared at her, the woman smiled back at him. She was Irene Adler.

* * *

><p><strong>Phew! A difficult chapter to write, hopefully it was up to your expectations. Any suggestions and improvements are very welcome.<strong> :$


	9. Sherlocking

John's jaw had dropped when he understood what had just happened at 221B Baker Street. A Woman he had expected to be dead was in fact alive, _very alive_, here at Baker Street. That meant Mycroft had been wrong. _"It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me."_ Well, apparently Sherlock had been at hand after all. _Okay. Breathe!_

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," the dominatrix said smoothly as soon as her feet hit the landing. "You look better than ever!" She walked towards John and kissed him lightly full on the mouth. John was too perplexed to respond, or move any limb at all, and instead just stared at her.

"What did-did you do to John?" he stammered, feeling the need to say at least something.

"Oh," she answered him, waving dismissively with her hand. "I did what you told me to, remember? It's just the drug I gave you too, nothing to worry about."

_What! What had Sherlock told her to do with him?_

But before he could ask her she had walked to the living room and crashed down on the sofa, sighing deeply and looking around the flat with a contented smile.

"Well, what are you doing here? You're supposed to be dead, remember." _Sherlock hadn't said anything about her _not_ being dead, so that must have been his plan. He wholeheartedly hoped._

John raised an eyebrow and looked at her inquisitively.

The Woman crossed her legs elegantly and flipped off her expensive high heels, dropping them carelessly on the floor with a soft thud. "I know I'm supposed to be dead, dearest, but we had this date today, remember? How long haven't you had any?" Her gaze was slightly mischievous, _teasing_.

"Any what?" John swallowed hard and avoided her gaze.

"Sleep, virgin of mine. How long haven't you had any sleep? You really seem to need it."

John didn't respond to that. Irene looked slightly worried. "Are you alright, dear?"

"Please, stop calling me _dear_!" John snapped, causing the Woman to frown even more.

"Is everything alright, Sherlock?" Irene sat up a little straighter as she tilted her head a little.

John covered his eyes with his hand and sat down in his chair, sighing deeply while the Woman's eyes were still focused on him.

When John remained silent, she sighed too and stood up. "Well, I didn't come all this way just to see you sit here. I thought we could have better things to do. Although… you look good sitting there like that. Shall I take a closer look? Those clothes seem to be very uncomfortable…" her voice trailed off, leaving a meaningful silence.

Bewildered, John looked up and asked: "please, remind me, _dear_."

Suddenly a smile broke through on the handsome woman's face. "Ah, you're trying to trick me, aren't you?"

"No…" _WHAT!_

"Well, last time you seemed to know very well what you wanted."

_Oh dear lord… What had he done wrong to deserve this!_

"I forgot." _Oh dear me._ John started to sweat. He knew how to stand up to her but talking, _flirting_, with her like this was something entirely different.

"You said it yourself. Well, screaming would be a better description." She again tilted her head, a playful smile around her mouth.

_Oh god no. What a mess Sherlock made when he wasn't watching._

John cleared his throat nervously and stood up. "Would you care for some tea?"

"Oh, is this you seducing me again?" Irene teased, sinking down on the sofa again after she had taken off her coat. She was impeccably dressed in a deep-purple dress, simple but effective; it flattered her silhouette; something John didn't fail to notice. She had really made an effort!

John sneaked to the kitchen and began to make tea.

"Shall I take care of John?" Irene asked, her voice suddenly dangerously close to John's ear. "Erm, yes, if you'd be so kind. I'm sure he'll be very angry with me when he wakes up." _Oh hell yes! He was going to _kill_ Sherlock._

She stroked his upper arm softly, _seductively_, when she walked downstairs bare-footed. John sighed deeply and did a quick aspiration. _Please let me live_.

When Irene came upstairs again, she sat down on the sofa and accepted the cup of tea from John.

John had, in the mean time, made up his mind and decided it would have been very much unlike Sherlock to have any kind of relation with her, so he started: "now, tell me what the real reason is you came here."

"We had a date."

"Oh, I'm sure we had, but that's not why you were here. We weren't supposed to meet again, so tell me: why did you risk it?" _Living with Sherlock The Sod Holmes had certainly been educational. Logical conclusion that seem to make sense…_

Irene smiled and put down her cup. "I need money. I have bribed many people to get to Moriarty's men, and now I've run out of it."

"I thought you knew what they liked."

Irene chuckled and looked at the clever detective opposite her. "Your cheekbones still remain very inviting, you know that?"

_Yeah, tell me about it_. "Are they?"

Irene narrowed her eyes and smiled again. "Read me."

"I've never been able to do that, dearest." _Well, playing Sherlock wasn't that bad._ John felt like James Bond; flirting with the bad-girls, close to the edge…

Irene opened her mouth to answer, but some rumbling noises from downstairs caused her to frown. "That can't be John. I'll see you later tonight, Sherlock." She quickly walked towards the detective and pulled him on his feet by grabbing his lapels. She closed the distance between them, pressing her mouth unto John's.

_He was being kissed by Irene Adler, the dominatrix. Irene Adler. Sherlock's Woman. _John decided to take all that was offered to him and kissed back enthusiastically. It's not that often that he got to kiss so many girls. Well, that he was _being_ kissed by girls. First Molly, now Irene… _Sherlock_ _The Lucky Bastard Holmes._

She pulled back and looked at him with wonder in her eyes. "Wow, you've gotten better, Sherlock." She ran towards Sherlock's bedroom and opened the window there. She teasingly called over her shoulder, just before she jumped: "keep practicing, dearest. Perhaps we can move on to phase three!"

John blinked and sat down, emptying his cuppa in two gulps. Irene Adler wasn't dead. She was alive. And obviously, she and Sherlock were… involved somehow. Well, knowing Irene, she was suggesting things that weren't there, so he had to ask Sherlock to make sure the information was true.

Pondering, John didn't notice that Sherlock stood in the living room barely seconds later. "What h-happened John?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"We had a visitor."

Sherlock's gaze wandered over John's face. "There's lipstick on your face."

John's hand flew towards his face and he attempted to remove the greasy blood-red stains while Sherlock sat down and grabbed a book, probably unwilling to know who had come by to visit.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock didn't look up from his book.

"You were drugged, how can you have recovered so soon?"

"Small dose and I'm an ex-addict. You're a doctor; you should have known."

"What drug was it?" John's eyes were fixed on Sherlock's.

"Oh, no idea."

"Oh." John thought some more, and then again asked: "do you actually have a girlfriend?"

Now he had Sherlock's attention. "Sorry?"

"You heard me the first time. Answer me."

"Girlfriend? No, not really." Sherlock dived into his book again.

"Do you have a _dead_ girlfriend then?"

"What do you mean, John?" Sherlock answered wearily, still not looking up from his apparently very interesting book.

"Irene Adler was here."

Sherlock's eyes shut up, met John's, widened for a bit, but he pulled himself together pretty fast. "Of course, that's obvious. What did she want?"

"Money, she said."

"What did she say? I need to know her exact words, John."

John thought deeply and then said: "I need money. I have bribed many people to get to Moriarty's men, and now I've run out of it."

"Did she say anything else?"

"Well-"

"John, I need to know!"

"Hang on," John stuttered. "She mentioned a date, you screaming what you wanted…"

"What did she do with her shoes?"

"What? How-"

Sherlock's gaze caused John's questions to drift off, so he answered Sherlock. "She threw them off as soon as she was here."

"Where did she go?"

"Was it something important?"

"John! Where did she go!" Sherlock was losing his patience, something that happened very rarely. He was pacing around the room agitatedly.

"She left through the window in your bedroom; she said she'd be returning later this afternoon."

Sherlock continued to pace around the room, and suddenly John shouted: "Sherlock, SIT DOWN and explain."

"Explain what?" Sherlock stopped in mid-movement and looked at a heated John.

"'Why isn't Irene Adler dead?' would be a good one to start with perhaps."

Sherlock exhaled deeply and sat down. "Fair enough."

So Sherlock explained he went to Karachi, saved her and how she promised to help him destroy Moriarty's network after he had jumped.

"What's that with all the codes?"

"Something is wrong, very wrong, but I don't know what."

"She kissed me, Sherlock. Twice."

Sherlock sighted, the ghost of a smile darting around his lips. "Don't worry. She does that."

"And she drugged you, according to her 'in the way to had told her to'."

"Yes. We do that." Sherlock tried to avoid answering that one, but when John's gaze didn't leave him for a single second, he continued: "you weren't supposed to know she was still alive, neither is Mycroft. Now I think you both do."

* * *

><p><strong>Phew. That was tough. Irene will be returning, obviously. I hope I portrayed her well, it's the first ficI've written with Irene in it. Please leave a review. I love reviews. :D<strong>


	10. Adlering

**Well, a little treat for the Irene/Sherlock shippers. It's fun to write! I'm a little out of ideas, so ideas or prompts are very welcome! :)**

* * *

><p>Irene had left the flat by using the window. She loved the thrill it always gave her to escape from Sherlock; outwitting him was a pleasure. Of course, he would find her somehow again very soon, no need to worry about that: he always did.<p>

She stepped inside the car and Kate drove off. She looked behind her, but no-one was following her. It was much to her relieve, really.

When they reached the abandoned warehouse she now lived, Kate parked the car just behind the building, out of sight. Both women went inside and climbed the stairs to the second floor; the rooms were made a bit more comfortable. It was not as nice as Irene was used to, but it sufficed for now. Better be alive here than dead in Karachi. She smiled at the thought. Sherlock hadn't been able to let her die and had shown up at the right moment. Never had Irene been happier to hear that moan as back then. She sighed and put the kettle on. "Kate? Would you like some tea?"

"Ah, yes please. What did Sherlock say?" she popped her head around the corner.

Irene frowned. "Good question. He behaved strangely."

"It was the first time you were in his flat since… well you know."

"That is true, but it wasn't that. No, there was something else. He refused to _read_ me."

A giggle was all Kate's reply.

When the tea was ready and both women sat down on the floor sipping from their cups, Kate addressed Irene. "Sweets, I want to go out and see Will. Is that alright?"

Irene nodded.

"Are you sure?" Kate asked to be completely sure.

"Of course. You go out and have fun. It's been over a week, hasn't it?"

Kate stood up and laid her hand on Irene's shoulder, squeezing it a little. "Have fun," Irene added before returning her attention to her cup of tea.

When Kate had left, Irene fished out her mobile and phoned Sherlock. She needed to hear his voice, she needed to talk to him. The little conversation just some minutes back had stirred something awake in her. He had behaved strangely just now but still… he was the man she needed and the man she adored. Really adored. She had been able to live without him for months, now she just needed him. She wasn't entirely surprised when she heard his phone beeping nearby. She got to her feet and said softly: "are you here, Sherlock?"

Out of the shadows emerged a well-known form, but it wasn't Sherlock. Her heart skipped a beat when she considered the possibility of it being Moriarty, but when she had a better view of the man, it turned out to be Sherlock's faithful blogger. John.

"What are you doing with Sherlock's phone?" she asked, trying to hide the fact she was a bit disappointed.

John smiled and stepped closer without saying anything.

Irene stepped back unconsciously and looked at the man. "Erm, sorry for drugging you. Where's Sherlock?"

The man chuckled while keeping his gaze focused on the Dominatrix. Suddenly he said: "you are slightly disappointing me, Irene. Just because I have a different body doesn't mean I'm not me anymore. "

"What are you talking about?" John was freaking her out. Why did he behave so weird. "Have you two been taking drugs?" she asked, laughing nervously.

"Mycroft suggested that too. But no, I haven't."

"Then what is going on, John?"

John walked closer to her and motioned her to sit down. "You are not going to believe this," he said, gently taking her hand. Only Sherlock did that in that way; she realised. a warm feeling flooding all around her.

* * *

><p>"So, you're saying that you and John swopped bodies, because of Fortune Cookies?" Her eyes were widened and her mouth agape. "No, really, John, that's insane!'<p>

"I'm Sherlock, dear," he commented with a soft smile. Irene shook her head incredulously. "Then tell me something just the two of us know."

The look in John's eyes changed as he scanned her from head to toe. "After Karachi, we went to a hotel. The duvet on the bed was deep-red. There was sand everywhere. You took a shower. I ordered food for one, champagne for two. The champagne turned out to be cheap, from China."

"You already knew, sweetest," Irene chuckled at the memories.

John smiled too. "When the champagne bottle was empty, you kissed me. A real, deep kiss. A kiss to say thank you. Well, at least I think so, because the second was completely different." His eyes shone devilish.

Irene crept closer towards the detective in the blogger's body. "Ah… It's really you," she sighed, contended at last. She had her detective back, and that was all that mattered for now.

"Sherlock?" she asked murmuring.

"Hmm?"

"Please, never _ever _wear jumpers when the two of you have swopped back. They itch."

A low chuckle rippled through his body. "That's what I told John too. He didn't want to listen though."

Irene smiled. "Must have been a hell of a day for you two."

"Yes, it was. Hopefully we will swop back soon."

"I think you need to find that Chinese person who gave you the cookies in the first place."

"We saw her, but she ran away. Mycroft's looking for her too."

After a comfortable silence both sank down on the floor. Sherlock lay on his back; Irene rested her head on his stomach. Suddenly, Irene exclaimed: "I kissed and flirted with JOHN! What did he say?"

Sherlock chuckled again. "He was angry with me at first, but then wanted to know how I did it."

She giggled a little, "how you did what?"

He grinned. "How I put up with you."

Irene smiled, but after that, Sherlock sat up straight and looked at her intently. "Why did you come to me in the first place? John told me the signs. Do you have any news?"

Irene sighed and sat up too. "Yes, I do. Seb is in South-America. I don't know where Moriarty is, there are rumors your brother has him but we're not sure."

"What about the money?"

"I'm out of it."

"No men willing to be recreationally punished?" He grinned.

Irene smiled. "No. I was able to find that out. Seb has his hands in some very dirty business; he is being helped by Marston and De Visser."

"Dutch?"

Irene nodded. "A big smuggling thing, drugs or weapons, I don't know."

Sherlock hummed happily and he gently pressed a kiss on Irene's dark hair. "I'll give you some money soon."

Irene lifted her head and looked in those grey-blue eyes. She smiled and pressed soft kiss to Sherlock's lips. "Thank you, mighty detective," she joked.

A little stiffly she stood and ruffled the short blonde's hair. "Off you pop. Go find that Chinese and call me when you're normal again." Sherlock grinned and left the building in the same catlike, noiseless manner he had come.

* * *

><p><strong>Don't forget to leave a little review or prompt or any other idea. :)<strong>


	11. Puzzling

**A/N: Dear readers: HELP! I'm out of ideas. There is probably just one chapter left, and an epilogue. Please, give me prompts or ideas… Please pretty please? Anyway, enjoy reading! ;)**

* * *

><p>After Sherlock had sneaked out of the warehouse, he wanted to go home and die. He was tired and grumpy, he was hungry, <em>again<em>!, or to put it in a short summary: he felt utterly miserable. That was something he hadn't felt before. Or in fact he had, but that was a very long time ago.

One thing he was happy about though. Back there at the crime-scene, he had felt confused about his _feelings_ for John. That probably just was because of the body-swap, because now he knew again that he just liked his brave, loyal, reliable and cozy soldier. He wanted to go home and die.

But then he received a text.

_Possible client could be very interesting. Come home. –JW_

Sherlock smiled. Going to bed and die could wait, clients couldn't. Right now, he would be very happy to take on any kind of case, no matter how dull. This sounded rather promising.

He hailed a cab and went back to Baker Street. When he entered the living room, Sherlock's face fell. "Okay, I lied," John said. "Possibly it's not even remotely interesting."

"I can see that, Jo-Sherlock," Sherlock replied, his eyes fixed on the person on the couch. "What are you doing here?"

"I found another corpse with a tattoo under his foot," the man answered. "And because you said once that I can have a promising career if I followed your lead… here I am."

"Well, Dimmock," Sherlock sat down. "Better ask my friend here if he wants to take it on. Sherlock, what do you think?"

John admired Sherlock's capability to switch so easily, he hardly made any mistake.

"Well... Erm..." John mumbled. "No use in sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on, is there?" He looked questioning at his friend, who gave him a barely conceivable nod.

"Well, Dimmock, where is it?" Sherlock asked.

The man frowned at the man he thought to be John for taking the lead now. "Erm... the Chinese restaurant ten minutes away from here. Murdered, but no evidence at all on the body," he said, looking at the man he thought to be Sherlock.

"We will be right behind, I need to talk to my friend here," John said. The man left the flat and John turned to face Sherlock.

"How was Irene?"

"Fine, I suppose. She will help us find some Chinese. "

"What about the threats she told me about."

Sherlock waved dismissively with his hand, "oh, she will be fine. I gave her some money so she'll be able to make it through for some more weeks."

"Ah," John nodded. "Erm, Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"How do you feel about Irene?"

Sherlock's had snapped up. "Sorry, what?"

"You heard me." John folded his arms and looked at his friend.

"Yes, I heard you."

"Then answer me."

"She's just a friend."

John's eyes narrowed.

"Anyway, John, we have a murderer to catch. Are you coming?"

"Yes, of course."

* * *

><p>Fifteen minutes later our favorite couple arrived at the Chinese restaurant.<p>

"It's our restaurant, Sherlock," John whispered, a feeling of uneasiness spreading through him.

"I know. Ah, Dimmock, let me through please?" Sherlock demanded, which earned him a poke in his side from John, who stepped forward. "Yes, I would like to take a look at the crime scene," John added.

The crease on Dimmock's brow deepened. "Are you two okay?"

Both men nodded emphatically at the same time, walking straight to the restaurant's kitchen where the body of a young Chinese girl lay. Dimmock pointed at her feet.

A black tattoo was printed on her heel. Sherlock knelt down and took his magnifier out of his jeans. John coughed and looked at a very surprised Dimmock. "Wha- why is John doing this?" he asked incredulously.

"He is, erm, learning. And I have this figured out already, just two or three ideas. It won't take that long. And, John, what did you find?"

"It's not the same tattoo. The image, the ink and the place are different."

"Oh," Dimmock said.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, looking at John. "Cause of death?" he asked his now tall friend.

John cleared his throat and rolled his eyes. "Poison, and strangulation, I think," he diagnosed when he had knelt down. Dimmock's jaw dropped. "You two switched?"

John's eyes widened when he heard the statement of Dimmock. _He knew!_

"Wow... you two changed jobs, how cool," he added.

John's breath escaped, Sherlock looked relieved around the room, trying to find more clues.

Suddenly his eye caught a little piece of paper.

He picked it up to have a better look and then showed it to John without commenting on it. John stared at it for some seconds and then quickly followed his friend who had left the crime scene. They left the bewildered Dimmock alone to wonder about what had gotten into those two.

He shrugged and called the forensics. "You two, come here and clear this mess up. We have an investigation to do."

"Sherlock! What did that mean?" John asked breathlessly.

"It's a sign, following this lead and we find the person who gave us the fortune cookies."

"You sure?" John asked.

His friend nodded grimly. "I have to find Irene."

John took another look at the slice of paper.

"_Time to see world in different light. Accepting changes life gives you will make you better person."_

"Oh dear…" John sighed, feeling a headache creeping up.


	12. Unfolding

**A/N: as promised: a deliciously long chapter Hopefully you like it. Somehow, in the middle of my writing process, I got intoxicated with The HitchHiker's Guide to the Galaxy, so if the style reminds you of that, that could very well be. Last chapter was disaster, it wasn't even funny. Thank you for sticking with me.. This one is better, I hope. It is the clue of the story, next chapters (probably two) will be the aftermath. Happy reading, and please leave a review. Pretty pretty please? I love them, and they really stimulate me to keep writing! :) Enjoy!**

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><p>John reread the little paper again.<p>

"_Time to see world in different light. Accepting changes life gives you will make you better person."_

John's headache worsened and he closed his eyes as he walked after Sherlock in the direction of the main street. It started raining, the rain being of the thoroughly soaking, freezing and chilling kind.

"John?" Sherlock suddenly spoke.

"Hmm?" John hummed as an answer, the rain feeling pleasantly cool on his sore head.

"CHINESE!" Sherlock pointed at a woman walking casually across the street. John looked in the same direction and looked at Sherlock.

Without saying anything else, the two of them began to run. John grinned foolishly and enjoyed the chase. The last time they chased the same woman it had been only half-hearted because either of them was tired and rather confused. Now, they were perfectly adapted to the other one's body and capabilities.

At least, that was what they both thought. But Sherlock realised that, being locked inside John's body, running in the rain after a Chinese woman was completely different from sniffing around at crime scenes. And to be honest; it was the kind of difference Sherlock wholeheartedly despised. He felt himself at a disadvantage. It didn't take long for John to outrun him. Sherlock was able to keep on John's heels, but John was in front.

Panting, Sherlock shouted displeased: "why are you faster than me?"

"Deliciously long legs!" John shouted over his shoulder as an answer, and quickly jumped over a fence in the middle of an alleyway.

He wanted to continue running, but Sherlock yelled him back. "John, we need to co-operate."

John quickly examined the situation and spoke quickly: "ok, move to your right!"

He helped Sherlock climb the fence and again the two of them set off.

"You know, John," Sherlock yelled again, "that swirling coat looks great. Why did you never tell me?"

"No need to feed your already way too big ego, my friend. No shut up and run! I want my own body back!"

"What's wrong with mine?"

"You smoke and don't eat nor sleep, Sherlock! Now shut up!"

The pair sprinted around the corner and suddenly Sherlock found himself face-forwards pressed in his nice warm, slightly soaked black woolen coat as John stopped dead in the middle of the alley. He had already opened his mouth to deduce the hell out of his friend when his jaw dropped. In the alleyway, in front of John and Sherlock, the woman stood still. Her legs a bit apart, firmly grounded, her arms folded across her chest, a daring look in her dark eyes.

"Welcome, gentlemen," she said in a soft malicious voice, "please, follow me." She turned and walked away.

John ruffled his dark curls and looked at Sherlock with a questioning look in his eyes. Sherlock shrugged and strode after the Chinese lady. John, as always, followed not much later.

They went left and right and again left, and after a while our two beloved friends were at a loss where they were. Well, at least John was. Sherlock had three options in his head, but the rain and the cold and his strange, soaked clothes didn't make it much easier to figure out where they were.

After half an hour of turning and walking, they finally reached an empty building. Empty because it looked deserted; hollow eyes used to be the high, classic windows, the door was half rotten.

"Enter, gentlemen," the lady motioned, and the two of them obeyed her, opening the door and entering the dark building, in which only one light-bulb shone a meager light.

"Welcome," a male voice said. John and Sherlock stood beside each other, shoulders almost touching. Well, Sherlock's shoulder touched John's upper-arm.

"What are we doing here," John snapped, his fists balled and adrenaline pumping through his body.

The man stepped from the shadows into the artificial light from the single light bulb. The small Chinese man grinned. "And, how was your day? I hope you enjoyed it."

"Not really," Sherlock answered.

The man's grin grew broader as he examined both their expressions. "I can see you didn't really learn from all this, did you? Well, then the experiment must last a little longer I'm afraid."

"What are we supposed to have learnt," John asked incredulously. "What are you? Good Samaritans?"

The man nodded emphatically and smiled his sickening smile again.

"Please, stop smiling!" John yelled. Sherlock looked at his friend and frowned. "Yelling won't really help us, John," he whispered and when he looked at the Chinese man he added: "but the question still stands; what are we supposed to have learnt?"

"Mutual respect, and love for each other." Again that stupid smile that made John want to hit him. Badly.

Both men gaped.

"Say that again..?" John asked.

"You have to finally accept you love each other and live after that feeling. Shall I elaborate?"

"Yes!" both men said in unison.

"Fine. Follow me." The man walked away and flicked on the cold lights to illuminate the room. Three chairs were standing opposite another. "Sit," the man motioned.

John and Sherlock sat down, looking at each other.

"Are you sitting comfortably?"

Both men nodded. They didn't understand a single thing of what was going on. John was pleased to notice that Sherlock also looked at a loss.

"Good, then I'll begin. We call ourselves The White Lilly. We want to bring peace and love in this world; we want to make people happy. This world," the man said fiercely while standing up and pacing around the room, "this world is filled with hate, denial of love, and acceptance is nowhere to be found. We want to help all these lost people, those people that don't have the guts to tell another man they love them. The grandmother of my mother created the spell, which is set into working by eating a Fortune Cookie, but I'm sure you found out."

"You killed a Chinese lady," John said through his grinded teeth.

"Oh, she had died already; it's just a clever use of the body."

Sherlock sniggered. "I had found out that much already. But please, continue your story."

John gaped at his friend. "You did-oh, never mind."

The Chinese man was quiet for a couple of minutes. The silence hung awkwardly between the three of them. Then the man opened his mouth and continued. "I'm sorry, but you haven't advanced far enough. There was a beginning somewhere, but it's not finished. I can't change you back, at least not now."

"Hang on," John said as he raised his hand, "we made a _beginning_?"

The man nodded again.

"We can't have. I'm not actually gay." John refused to believe this nonsense.

"I think this man is right, John," Sherlock interrupted quietly.

"_What_!" John's head turned to face Sherlock, a look of utter incredibility on his face. Sherlock just smiled and it dawned on John. "Oh no," the doctor whispered, narrowing his eyes when he looked at his friend. "You apologised to me after at Starbuck's for calling me ugly. Is that it?"

Sherlock's grin faded, as he nodded in response. "I did, didn't I?" he asked no-one in particular.

"Yes, you did," John nodded.

"Well, I had this sort of epiphany," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "You remember The Girl Who Waited?" he stopped talking for some seconds. "From Doctor Who?" he added when John didn't answer immediately. John nodded. _Yes, of course. That had been a good episode!_

"Well, Amy talked to Amy about Rory and how much they loved him," another nod from John, "and I suddenly realised: John's the most beautiful man I've ever met."

The Chinese man looked very pleased. "Good," he said, almost rubbing his hands in ultimate pleasure.

John swallowed hard. "Oh."

"Yes, 'oh'," Sherlock agreed. "However, later I realised you're my very best friend, and that such feelings are completely natural."

"I haven't had those!" John said a little too loud. "And no, they aren't normal!"

The Chinese man opposite them tilted his head slightly to the right, daring John to think again.

John closed his eyes and lowered his head upon his chest.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock asked, monitoring John's movements and trying to deduce from that.

John inhaled deeply and allowed the air to escape feebly. "The man is indeed right, Sherlock."

"What? You too?" Sherlock snapped. The tension of waiting was a bit too much for his tired and very confused synapses.

"When we were getting dressed, you helped me with the buttons... and the sensation of that… of your fingers on my chest…" John licked his lips nervously, "that was heaven."

Sherlock smiled. John narrowed his eyes when he looked at his friend. "I can't help those feelings Sherlock, so I think this man must be right. Now you must not make fun out of me. It's a bit not good."

A deep chuckle however did reach John's ears and he frowned when Sherlock started to laugh uncontrollably.

"What is so funny, Sherlock?" John asked, a tinge of anger rising in his voice.

The Chinese man also frowned as he looked at the two soaked men in front of them. The pleased look had disappeared from his face. "What! What did I miss?" he bellowed, wanting an answer and wanting it now.

John clenched his teeth and hissed: "I just confessed the feelings I have. It's not the time to make fun of me, Sherlock!"

"It-it's just…" Sherlock giggled. _Did he actually _**giggle**_?_ John wondered.

"What?" John demanded.

"Those feelings… You only had them because I am ticklish in that area!"

"Ticklish?" both John and the Chinese man exclaimed.

Sherlock nodded and grinned. "Yes, I'm ticklish. Irene uses it a lot."

The Chinese man took out his phone and started to text rather roughly.

"Oh… shite..." he mumbled when he received a reply. He looked at Sherlock. "What's your first name?"

"Moron," John mumbled. "I've called his first name at least ten times this evening." The man ignored John's rather rude comment and continued to look at Sherlock.

"Erm, Sherlock?" Sherlock answered, looking as if he didn't understand a bit of what was going on. This probably was exactly what was happening to him.

"Oh. Do you happen to have a brother?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Is that brother of yours called Mycroft?"

Sherlock nodded.

The man turned to face the blogger.

"What's your name?" the man demanded.

"John," John answered.

"Not Greg or Gregory?"

"God, no!" John exclaimed. The look on his face must have been priceless, even if you _had_ a Master Card.

"You're not a Detective Inspector then?"

John shook his head.

"Oh." The man didn't say anything else, turned on his heels and left, leaving the two men on their own.

"What was that?" John asked.

"Someone changed his mind, scenario one. The question then would be: who?," Sherlock said thoughtfully. "Scenario two is that they made a gigantic mess of all this."

"Hmm?" John asked.

"They wanted to swap Lestrade and my brother."

"Why would they want to do that?" John asked, still not completely understanding this whole mess.

"My brother and Lestrade are probably meant for each other. Come, I want to go home."

John stood up, trying very hard to delete the rather vivid view of Greg and Mycroft together, kissing, in the rain, under that ridiculous umbrella. _Yuck. That was a bit too disturbing._


	13. Ending

**Well, it's sad to announce; but all stories end. It's the last chapter to this story; to be followed by a short epilogue. Thank you all so very very much for reading this, and following me and the story. I'm really astonished by the amount of responses I received! Perhaps I'll make another story like this, ideas enough. Keep an eye out!**

**This particular chapter is dedicated to all my faithful reviewers: Azlira, BigBangWiz, Feyfangirl and all the others (sorry if I forgot your name! Don't make me into shoes now…!)**

**But especially I wanted to thank SherlockedUntilDeath for hating JohnLock and forcing me to reconsider the storyline! Thank you! Hopefully you've enjoyed this chapter!**

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><p>"John, I need food and I need it now," Sherlock complained as he opened the door of 221B. "I don't care if you want some, but I am starving." He climbed the stairs up to the living room, followed by John. They shrugged of their soaked clothes and John announced: "I am going to take a shower. You order anything, I'm not hungry."<p>

"… says the doctor," Sherlock mocked, picking up the phone to order Thai. "What do you always say: 'for god's sake you need to eat', isn't that is?"

"Shut up. I don't need food, I need a smoke."

"No!" Sherlock shouted suddenly with wide eyes, startling John.

"Wow! Man, I need a smoke!" John protested loudly.

"Here," Sherlock said, throwing John a little box. "Use these. I haven't smoked in years-"

"- last week -" John interrupted.

"- and you're not going to restart that," Sherlock continued.

John fished out a nicotine patch, and stuck it to his skin, and he fished out another, until there were three on his forearm. Sherlock watched but didn't say anything.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"Would care to take the time to explain to me what happened there? Just 'cause I'm not getting it actually."

Sherlock sighed and looked smiling at his friend. "They mixed you and me up with our beloved government and DI."

"Did they want us to be a couple?"

Sherlock nodded.

John sniggered. "That's ridiculous."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "Is it?"

John looked at his friend incredulously. "Yes, Sherlock. It is."

Sherlock only grinned.

John sighed. "Okay, so, honestly... we have been locked in each other's body, only because that White Lilly–gangthing mixed up their files?"

Sherlock nodded. John grunted and buried his head in his hands. "That's utterly ridiculous! Anyway… we're not meant to be together. Hopefully people will stop talking."

"Of course we're not meant to be together," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, causing John to look very surprised. "Well," Sherlock elaborated, "me and Irene are 'together' as you put it so eloquently. We have been for quite a while really."

John gaped. "Oh, congrats," he said, smiling broadly, slightly sheepishly.

"Thank you," Sherlock said coolly as always. He continued immediately with "do we have jam in here?" while opening all various cupboards. John nodded and took out the jar half-filled with red from the fridge, handing it to Sherlock. "Enjoy," he winked before disappearing in the bath room.

Sherlock dipped his finger in the jar and licked it, eyes closed. _Lovely_.

Some minutes later the doorbell rang and Sherlock walked downstairs to open the door. He handed the delivery boy a tenner and closed the door, dipping his nose in the paper bag, sniffing deeply. His stomach responded by growling very loudly. Sherlock grinned and walked back upstairs.

John ruffled his wet curly hair with a towel and looked at his friend who ate straight from the bag. "That hungry, are you?" he asked, smiling. Sherlock nodded.

"You need to get out of those wet clothes, Sherlock. What if you catch pneumonia?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Well, Sherlock... that would be me then eh? So you leave the food and take a nice, warm shower to warm up. I'll put these in the micro for you to keep it warm. Off you pop!"

Sherlock obeyed, groaning with displeasure and pain?

"You okay, Sherlock?" his friend asked, noticing the little whimper.

"Yeah, fine. Just twisted my ankle I think."

John sat down in his chair and closed his eyes. He was thoroughly tired and bored. Wow, that was a new feeling. He turned on the telly to watch the news, but before Sherlock emerged from the shower, he was already sound asleep.

Sherlock wasn't tired; the running around in the rain after a Chinese had certainly been exciting, and now he was sore everywhere, but he wasn't tired. He entered the living room and saw his friend asleep in his chair. Well, a short nap wouldn't hurt, would it? The cosyness of the place (a lit fire and a snoring blogger in a chair was considered cozy by the world's most famous detective) Sherlock turned off the telly and lay down on the sofa, closed his eyes and drifted off in his mind-palace.

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><p>The two men slept peacefully until Mrs. Hudson thought it was time to wake them up. "Ooh-ooh," she smiled, knocking softly. The men sleepily looked at each other and both gulped, suddenly awake. Sherlock sat in John's chair, looking at his short friend who lay on the sofa. Sherlock's bony hand immediately flew towards his head and ruffled his curls, letting out a sigh of contentment. John smiled and got to his feet. "Shall I help you, Mrs. Hudson?"<p>

He walked with her towards the kitchen, and helped her to make tea. "Sherlock, do you want some too?" he yelled at his flatmate, but when he didn't receive a respond he looked at the living room. It was empty and Sherlock's coat was gone. John smiled. _One guess as to where the detective had run off to._

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><p>"Hello, Mr Holmes," Irene greeted the detective. She lay on the soft pillows in the middle of the warehouse. Sherlock entered the room slowly, scanning the whole area before he fixed his eyes on his lover. He smiled a little when she got to her feet and walked towards him. When they were just a breath apart, she laid her hands on his chest, looking up at the tall man.<p>

"I can see you've sorted it all out with the fortune cookies and John and the White Lilly?"

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow but didn't say anything. Instead he took her hands softly in his and removed them from his chest, his eyes still locked in hers.

He wrapped his fingers around her wrists and smiled. "I love to feel your heartbeat speeding up, all because of me."

"Is it racing again?"

"Yes it is, Miss Adler.'

"Oh, come here!" She took his hand in hers and led him towards the soft pillows on the ground. Putting her hands on his shoulder she pushed him down, and soon followed herself. She snuggled beside him and found Sherlock wrapping his arm around her.

Irene looked up at his face and stared at his face. Sherlock was relaxed and so beautiful.

He looked down at her and she saw his eyes soften on the slightest; she knew it was just for her.

"Did you, uhm," she cleared her throat, "did you tell John?"

Sherlock nodded. "He took it really well, considered you were supposed to be dead and I'm supposed to be an asexual sociopath."

"Oh, come here you!" and Irene grabbed the lapels of his coat and pulled him close, locking his lips with hers.

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><p>In a completely different part of town, John leaped out of a cab. He had been alone in 221B, and he had started thinking and come to a conclusion. And to live up to that conclusion, he needed to go out.<p>

He climbed the stairs swiftly and glanced at his watch. It was late, almost midnight. He just hoped she would be there.

He rang the doorbell and waited impatiently, tapping his foot on the ground nervously. Finally the door swung open, revealing the small blonde girl, hair a mess and bare-feet. John smiled his cutest smile and said: "hi, Molly. I hope I… uhm… didn't wake you?"

"Well, you did, actually," Molly answered, already suspecting the reason for this nightly visit.

"Where's Sherlock? Does he need a body or something? Weird, normally he texts..." Molly murmured, opening the door a little wider and motioning the blogger to enter her small apartment.

John coughed softly and looked at the girl. "No, Sherlock doesn't need anything."

"Oh," came Molly's answer. "Would you like some tea or coffee?"

"Yes, fine. That would be, erm, great!"

"Okay." Molly headed for the place John thought to be the kitchen and sat down, scanning the living room. It was obviously a girl's house, but not as girlish as he had expected it to be.

Sometime later Molly entered, two cups of tea in her hands. She handed one to John and sat down in the opposite chair.

"Well, what are you doing here then?"

John put down his tea and looked at the pretty pathologist. "Molls, you have to believe me when I tell all I'm going to tell you has really happened…"

Molly nodded and John started to tell.

"Oh my…" Molly breathed. "That sounds ridiculous."

"I know," John agreed.

"So, you were Sherlock and Sherlock were you. Oh no…" Molly's eyes widened. "I'm sorry, John! I kissed...-"

"- me, yes."

"I'm sorry!"

"No, don't be, Molly," John said seriously. "Don't be. I.. I liked it! So now I was wondering… would you like to go out and have some coffee with me?"

Molly just nodded, a light blush creeping over her cheeks.

"Great!" John beamed, grinning from ear to ear. "Will tomorrow do? I'll pick you up after your shift has ended, if that's okay with you of course!"

Molly smiled and stared at the kind man she had never really paid attention to, but she realised he was far more reliable and kind and thoughtful than a certain consulting detective. If she looked hard, she could even consider him handsome and… gosh, yes, he was!

John finished his tea and stood. "Well, thank you, Moll. Better go, you need your sleep."

"Yes, erm… it was nice," Molly said, biting her lip.

They walked towards the front door, and with the doorknob in his hand John turned to face Molly for the last time that day. "I'll see you tomorrow then?"

Molly nodded vigorously, but her breath stuck in her throat when John leaned down, his eyes lingering on her lips. She tilted her head to meet his and when their mouths touched it was just a chaste kiss. But, all things considered, it was a chaste kiss that sent shivers up to two separate spines. He walked outside without looking back and hailed a cab to return to Baker Street.

When he returned home, Sherlock hadn't returned. And when John woke up the next morning, Sherlock still wasn't home. John grinned. He knew exactly where Sherlock was. Who would have thought?

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><p><strong>As I said before: thanks for following! Did you enjoy this last chapter or should I change some stuff?<strong>


	14. Epilogue

**Epilogue.**

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and sighed deeply. What a hell of a day. There had been a suicide, a murder by a kid and a kidnapping, and now he had to do the paperwork for today. Oh, and the paperwork of yesterday, because today had been awfully busy. Donovan he had sent home already, she wouldn't be of much use. The DI closed his eyes and felt himself sinking in sleep, but he jerked himself out of it. His stomach thought it about time to protest against its emptiness, and with another sigh did the DI pick up the phone and ordered Chinese. He felt like Chinese.

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><p>Somewhere else in London, in an expensive house, Mycroft Holmes sat alone by the fire, glass of whiskey in his hand. He rather knew he was hungry and alone instead of feeling like that. Mycroft Holmes had always been a loner, and not that he really cared. Sherlock claimed to be married to his work, and Mycroft thought that had to be a family curse, because he was too. And he hated it. He hated arranged marriages like this. If only one could divorce. He rang the little bell near his hand.<p>

"Anthea, would you please order some Chinese for you and me, if you like of course."

"Of course sir," the dark-haired woman answered. She knew what was coming. Mr. Holmes would eat his diner in silence, deep sunken in thought, drink a lot and fall to sleep to be troubled by nightmares and such. It was going to be a long night.

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><p>In the Chinese restaurant the two orders arrived at the same time. Cook Chan took them on, read the names and smiled.<p>

"Two star-crossed dinners, please!" he yelled in his high-pitched voice. He assembled the dinners in the paper bags and grinned devilishly when he took two fortune cookies out of his jacket-pocket, dropping one in each paper bag.

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><p>The delivery boys set out and arrived at the police station and the expensive house at the same time. They handed over the bags, took the money and returned to the restaurant after saying: "the White Lilly says: enjoy your meals."<p>

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><p>Lestrade gladly opened the bag; he was starving! He opened the fortune cookie and frowned when he read the message. Stupid cookies.<p>

Mycroft opened the bag in a similar manner. Anthea would be with him soon, but he knew she didn't like the Fortune Cookies, so she probably wouldn't mind if he tried one. He glanced over the little paper and tossed it aside; the food was more appealing.

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><p>Both papers read the same message; carrying a meaning the two men would only understand over time.<p>

"_Time to see world in different light. Accepting changes life gives you will make you better person."_

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><p><em>THE END.<em>


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